Play to the End (13 page)

Derek Oswin

The name Edna Welthorpe popped into my thoughts as I finished the letter. She was the pseudonymous phantom

Joe Orton invented for the purpose of writing teasing and tendentious missives to institutions whose pomposity needed pricking (in his opinion). Sometimes she'd even fire off a prudish complaint to a newspaper about one of Orton's own plays, all publicity being good publicity. I felt instantly and instinctively certain that Derek had written to Leo in the spirit of Edna Welthorpe, calculating that I would see the joke but that neither Leo nor Melvyn would. But, though I saw the joke, I was also the victim of it. Derek really was mad, in the Ortonian sense. There was no telling what he might do next. If I'd thought I was in control of the situation, this letter showed me to be deluding myself.

I handed it back to Melvyn. "I seem to have a prankster by the tail,"

I said through a simulated smile. "This is rather embarrassing, isn't it?"

"You are acquainted with Mr. Oswin, dear boy?"

"Yes. But he isn't acting as my go-between, or '

"Then why did you miss the play?"

My smile became a stiff grin. "You've got me there."

"Who is he?"

"Nobody you need to bother about. In fact, that's exactly what he is.

Nobody."

"I wish Leo agreed with you. He seemed to think the ghastly little pipsqueak had a point." Melvyn reddened. "About my direction."

"Oswin's just trying to get a rise out of us."

"But why did you miss the play?"

"All right." I held up my hands in surrender. "It did have to do with Jenny .. . and my attempts to persuade her to ... call off the divorce.

But Oswin isn't .. . assisting me ... in any way."

"Then how does he know so much about it, pray?"

"Oh God." I stood up and stared out through the window, a view of slowly falling dusk seeming preferable to holding Melvyn's gaze.

"There'll be no more Edna letters, I assure you."

"Edna?"

"Never mind. Forget Derek Oswin. Please. Leave him to me."

"I'd be glad to."

"I'll sort him out." I gave my dimly reflected self a confirmatory nod. "Once and for all."

I eventually persuaded Melvyn to leave on the grounds to which he could hardly object that I needed a rest before the performance. This was undoubtedly true. But lying on my bed, with the only light in the room a drizzle of amber from the nearest street lamp, I found rest hard to come by. What did Derek Oswin think he was playing at? The question would have been troubling enough to ponder without the added complication of Roger Colborn's brazen attempt to buy me off, backed up as it very possibly was by the threat of still cruder inducements. What in the name of sweet Jesus had I got myself into? And how, more to the point, was I to get myself out?

Not, I reasoned, by storming round to Viaduct Road and throttling the epistolarian of number 77, tempting though the idea was. Derek would probably claim he had written to Leo in the genuine hope of persuading him to go easy on me, just as he had supposedly manoeuvred me into missing the play in the first place solely for the purpose of making Jenny think well of me. It could even be true. I didn't know whether I was over- or under-estimating him. He'd sent the letter to Leo before knowing if I'd do his bidding, which suggested a supreme confidence in his tactics. But confidence and madness often go hand in hand.

Not in Roger Colborn's case, though. He's the ultimate rationalist.

And confident to boot. It occurred to me that he and Derek are strangely alike, for all their apparent dissimilarity. They both think they have the measure of me. And they both might be right. I certainly don't have the measure of them. Yet.

Gavin Colborn may be my conduit to the truth. And I was relying on Syd Porteous to lead me to him. Until my post-show supper with Syd and his lady friend, therefore, I could make no headway. Derek would have to wait. Everything was on hold. Until I'd got back on stage and done my stuff. As some seemed to doubt I still could.

But I wasn't one of them. In fact, tonight's performance of Lodger in the Throat was a liberation for me. I could stop thinking about the complexities of the Jenny-Roger-Derek triangle and enjoy myself as James Elliott, the middle-aged middle-class man of repute who suddenly senses that his carefully managed life is falling apart around him. I stopped straining for effects and played it like I saw it was. For the first time, I found myself believing in the person I was supposed to be. Orton hadn't written a comedy with a serious undercurrent, I realized. He'd written a tragedy so bleak you had to laugh at it.

And how they laughed. A Brighton audience was bound to be at the sophisticated end of the spectrum of those we'd played to, but their responsiveness none the less took me by surprise. If it had been like this earlier in the tour, we'd all be looking forward to a New Year in the West End. We'd hit our stride too late.

That we'd found it at all was attributed by an over-excited and over-lubricated Melvyn Buckingham to my more assertive projection of the character of James Elliott. And this, he told anyone who was willing to listen as drinks and hangers-on circulated afterwards round the star's and co-star's dressing rooms, was the result of an intensive examination of the role we'd conducted earlier.

"It's strange," I smilingly whispered to Jocasta. "I don't seem to have any memory of that."

"Something galvanized you, Toby," she said. "Even if it wasn't Melvyn."

"More likely to have been the widespread reports of how well Denis did last night."

"He did do well. But he's still not in the same league as you, not when you're really on form, anyway. That bit at the start of act two, where you delayed waking Tom and took a sort of poignant tour of the set where did that come from?"

"Not sure. It just.. . came."

I was sure, of course. Derek Oswin of all unlikely people had turned me into a better James Elliott. I didn't know whether to welcome his influence or resent it. Either way, he was hardly a conventional source of artistic advice. In fact, however you looked at it, he was a thoroughly disturbing one.

Melvyn was evidently set on making his night in Brighton memorable. I extricated myself with some difficulty from the party he was getting together and headed for the Latin in the Lane.

The restaurant was three-quarters full, bubbling and bustling in best late-night Italian tradition. Judging by the numerous glances and murmurs I attracted on my way through, many of the diners had adjourned there from the Theatre Royal. Among those was Syd Porteous, who'd added a tie to his standard clobber. It looked worn and thin enough to be of the old-school variety. He greeted me as if we'd known each other for years (which in some strange way it felt as if we had) and introduced me to his suitably surprised companion.

"Sydney, you dark horse," she exclaimed. "You never said it was Mr.

Toby Flood we were meeting."

"An evening with me is a venture into the unexpected," Syd responded with a roll of the eyes. "To be, this lovely lady is Audrey Spencer."

Audrey was lovely, despite an outfit that might have flattered her fifteen years ago but now verged on the affectionately sarcastic. There was a lot of bosom and a lacy fringe of bra on display. And the pink trousers I couldn't avoid noticing when she set off for the loo later were stretched round a bottom that needed camouflage rather than emphasis. What age couldn't either wither or expand, though, was the sparkle in her eyes, her mischievously crooked grin and her effervescently winning personality.

"I haven't enjoyed myself at the theatre as much in I don't know how long," she enthused. "That Orton was a one, wasn't he? Not that the words would count for a lot if you didn't deliver them so well, Toby.

Sydney tells me he actually met Orton once. Has he mentioned that to you?"

"He has, yes," I replied, glancing at Syd.

"I had no idea he moved in such exalted circles, you know. I'm beginning to realize he's a man of mystery. Just as well I like a good mystery, isn't it?"

At which Syd fingered his tie and tried to give his self-satisfied smirk a mysterious edge.

Such banter continued as we ordered our meals and made steady inroads into the Piedmont end of the wine list. Syd wasn't one to stint ladies or actors. Feeling more than somewhat pleased with myself following what had to count as our best yet rendering of Lodger in the Throat, I was happy to indulge my host, especially in view of the pay-off I was hoping for.

This was delivered during the first of Audrey's nose-powdering expeditions. Syd lowered his voice to a hoarse growl, leaned towards me and announced, "I've been in touch with Gav Colborn as promised, To be. He's happy to meet. The Cricketers at noon tomorrow suit you?

Same time, same place, like? May as well keep it simple."

"I'll be there."

"Perfecto. Although, as it happens, you don't have to wait until then for some interesting gen on the Colborn clan."

"I don't?"

"No. Wait till Aud gets back. She can spring it on you."

"Audrey can?"

I had to be content with one of Syd's ludicrously choreographed winks by way of an answer. Within a few minutes, though, Audrey rejoined us, whereupon Syd asked her to tell me all about something they'd discussed earlier.

"Oh, that." Audrey cast a sympathetic glance in my direction. "Are you sure Toby wants to hear about it, Sydney? It's really not very exciting. Or jolly. And we're supposed to be having fun."

"I hope you are, darling," said Syd, using 'darling' for the first time I could recall. To be will be interested, I promise."

"All right, then." She turned towards me. "Sydney asked me if I'd heard of a plastics company called Colbonite, though why he should think I might have done

"He that asketh receive th murmured Syd.

"Well," Audrey went on, 'it's a strange thing, but I do know the name.

I'm secretary to one of the consultants at the Royal Sussex. He's a cancer specialist. Over the years, he's treated quite a lot of people who worked for Colbonite. The thing is '

The trill of my mobile was a sound I didn't want to hear. With a gabbled apology, I plucked it out of my pocket, intending to dispose of the caller in short order. Melvyn in his cups was my bet, urging me to join the party. But it wasn't Melvyn.

"Toby, this is Denis. Where are you?"

"A restaurant in the Lanes."

"Is there any chance .. . you could meet me ... sort of right now?"

"I'm in the middle of a meal, Denis."

"I wouldn't ask if I wasn't .. . pretty desperate." And it was true to say he did sound desperate. There was a quiver of anxiety in his voice.

"What's wrong?"

"The man mountain who threw me out of Embassy Court has shown up at my digs. They're after me, Toby. Christ knows why. But I'm frightened, I don't mind admitting it. I don't know what to do."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm at a bus stop in North Street, with a load of students waiting for a midnight run back to the University. I figure there's safety in numbers. But there won't be any numbers to be safe in when the bus turns up."

I struggled to suppress my irritation, knowing that if Denis was in trouble, it was probably on my account. "OK, OK," I said. "I'll be with you as soon as I can get there."

I rang off and smiled ruefully at my bemused companions. "I'm really sorry about this. A friend of mine is ... in difficulties. I'm going to have to go and find out what the problem is."

"You're leaving us, Toby?" Syd looked positively distraught. "Don't say that."

"I've no choice, I'm afraid."

"We understand, Toby," said Audrey. "What are friends for but to help out in an emergency?"

"True enough," Syd reluctantly agreed.

"Do you have time for me to finish telling you about Colbonite?" Audrey asked. "There isn't a lot to it, in all honesty."

"Well .. ." I glanced at my watch. It was approaching a quarter to midnight, which meant Denis was safe enough for the present. "I can stay for a few minutes." And I did want to hear about Colbonite. Oh yes. "Your boss treated a lot of workers from Colbonite, you said. For cancer?"

"Yes. Of the bladder, mostly. I don't know about "a lot", though.

More like a steady trickle. Terminal cases, usually, I'm afraid."

"And this has gone on ... since the company closed?"

"Yes. Well, cancer often develops a long time after exposure ... to whatever causes it."

"And what does cause it... in these cases?"

"I don't know."

"But Gav might," put in Syd.

"Yes. I suppose he might." I looked back at Audrey. "How many cases are we talking about?"

"I couldn't say."

"Go on. Just a guesstimate. I won't quote you on it."

"Well .. ." She thought for a moment, then said, "Several dozen at least." And then she thought for another moment. "Maybe more."

I must have left the Latin in the Lane later than I'd thought. By the time I reached North Street it was five past midnight. The city centre's main thoroughfare was cold and empty. There was no knot of raucous students waiting for transport back to the campus. And no sign of Denis.

I retrieved his mobile number from my phone and rang it. No answer. I tried again. Still no answer.

I stood at one of the deserted bus stops, wondering what to do next.

Denis might have got on the student bus, I supposed, although a trip out to Falmer would only leave him with the problem of how to get back.

Or he might have pulled himself together and returned to his lodgings.

But there we came to a gaping lack of information. I didn't know where he was staying.

Unable to think of any other recourse, I rang Brian Sallis. There was a slur to his voice when he answered and a blurred hubbub in the background. I imagined he was in a restaurant somewhere, with Melvyn and most of the cast. And I imagined they were having a good time unlike me.